Alix Moriarty
by nightwish-shadowstalker
Summary: This is what happened to Alix Moriarty that made her who she is. Contains swearing, descriptions of depression/self-harm, and sexual references. Mostly centred around Alix, my OC. Does contain Mystrade at the beginning, but nothing graphic.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Welcome, one and all. This is a Sherlock-y thing with my OC, Alix, and contains major spoilers for the ends of series two and three. Begins with Mystrade, contains references and description of self-harm and depression. Italics are Alix's POV or character's thoughts. Reviews are always appreciated, and thanks for reading!**

'Imagine a world where everything is beautiful – so beautiful and so intense that sometimes it hurts – and everything is deadly poisonous. Imagine that you don't know what is safe, what is right, so all you can do is try and strike a balance. Imagine you have spent your entire life walking along a very fine line, so fine you have lost it at times and not known if you would ever find it again.

But I don't need to imagine. I'm already there. Welcome to my life.'

"Tonight," Greg gasps, as Mycroft pushes him up against the wall, "Tonight is the last time."

Mycroft tuts under his breath. "You say that every time we do this. And yet you keep coming back." He nips briefly at Greg's throat, hard enough to hurt in a good way. Greg shudders, moans softly.

He couldn't stop now if he wanted to.

When Mycroft has gone, and the flat is dark and empty, he catches himself thinking that he wishes Alix were here. _Why?_ he asks himself. _She is my friend. That is all she is._

_It's not what you want her to be, though, is it? _his subconscious asks. He laughs unexpectedly. _I know I'm in trouble when my subconscious has the voice of Alix Moriarty. Yep. Definitely in trouble._

_Or in love_, the subconscious supplies dryly. He sighs. _Shut up._

When Alix walks in at half-past six to find him with long red scratches down his back and a bite mark on his shoulder, she doesn't even ask. She walks out again, fixes them both coffee and just says quietly, "Bathroom in five minutes."

It's the look in her eyes that kills him. Every time, it's the same mixture of emotions. Anger, sadness, pain. If he didn't know her, he'd describe it as heartbreak. She knows damn well who he was with last night, while she was working the case with Sherlock, running through London with armed gang members on their tail. She says nothing as she gently washes his back, avoiding the worst of the marks, and then carefully disinfects the scratches. He notes absent-mindedly that she's wearing a sweatband on her left wrist that wasn't there when she came in. Then the importance of that hits him properly, and he twists round and takes her arm, slowly pulling away the fabric. She winces, but doesn't pull away as he stares at the mess of raw skin and cuts and blood on the inside of her wrist.

He stares at her silently for several moments. She holds his gaze with no emotion at all.

"Why?" He breaks the stillness first.

"Because it helps me. And you?"

"Because I'm afraid to break it off." He sighs. "I know. It's pathetic."

She shrugs. "Mycroft Holmes is one scary bastard."

"Please, Alix," he says softly, taking her hands. "I'm sorry. Please. Don't – don't do this to yourself."

She pulls back and stands up. Distant now. Empty. He knows that mask far too well to be fooled by it.

"Alix? Alix, come here." He stands and carefully wraps his arms around her, holding her very gently. "It means nothing. Nothing. I'm going to break it off tonight."

She's still very controlled. Her face could have been carved out of marble. "Why the sudden strength?"

"Because I can't watch you tear yourself apart over my inability to speak," he replies. She relaxes a little. Not much. Just enough for him to be encouraged that maybe things will work.

She mumbles something very quietly into his chest. He looks down at her questioningly, so she repeats her words loud enough for him to hear.

"I love you."

He kisses her, softly, almost hesitantly. It's ridiculous, considering how long they've known each other, but he is afraid that anything else will break this fragile girl even more. God knows she's been through enough without him adding to it. Shot in the stomach, watched her best friend and brother fighting like animals, seen them both on the mortuary slab. She kisses back, and he holds her like she will fade into nothing if he lets go.

When the black car pulls up outside his flat at ten past eight, he grimaces and steels himself for the inevitable. By rights, Mycroft shouldn't be angry – he knew this was nothing emotional, and he also knew it was never going to last.

Greg sighs tiredly as the footsteps made their way up the stairs. 'By rights' has never made much of an impression on the man in the past, and it is unlikely to start now.

When the elder Holmes enters, seeing Greg standing by the window, he exhales slowly and says, "That's it, then. It's over."

Greg nods. He can't quite bring himself to turn around. "Yeah. It's over. I'm sorry."

Mycroft is quiet and calm. "It's Alix, isn't it?"

He nods again. "Yes. Because I love her. And this is tearing her apart. She's killing herself over me."

"And you don't know who she is." He's cold and bitter. "You have no idea. And you choose her?"

"I know who her brother was, if that's what you mean." Greg matches his icy tone easily. "She can't help that. And you knew that we would never last."

A soft sigh makes him turn round. Mycroft looks the closest he's ever looked to honest sadness.

"Yes. I knew from the start. I was… hopeful. I was surprised we lasted as long as we did."

Greg looks at him and crosses the room in three strides. One hand reaches up, ghosting over the other man's lips. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Mycroft says dryly. He doesn't meet Greg's eyes. He can't bear it.

He presses their lips together – one last time – all tenderness. Then he's gone, leaving the detective with a cold empty flat and a colder heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Chapter two, here we go. Rated for swearing, sexual references and some nasty injuries. Enjoy.**

When Alix walks in at half-past six the next morning, he's still stood there, thinking. She walks out, fixes them both coffee, and says quietly, "Bathroom in five minutes."

This time, he's the one kneeling on the floor and cleaning her wounds, disinfecting the fresh cuts on her wrists. Sterilising the grazes on knees, elbows and palms from running and jumping and falling on the rooftops. Cleaning and bandaging the deep wound across her shoulder blades where someone cut her the previous night in a vicious attack. Thinking that she should really be in hospital.

"It's over. Me and Mycroft. I ended it." He looks up at her, sat on the edge of the bath, shivering. "So no more. Please. This has to stop, Alix."

She looks at him and he thinks he's never seen someone look quite so empty. "Why?"

"Because I am begging you to," he replies. "Because I love you."

And the light – the light that has been gone for so long – starts to shine behind her eyes. "I love you too," she tells him, very quietly.

He thinks that he's never heard something so important in all his life.

When he proposes to her, over dinner and a bottle of good wine, she looks at him in complete and total shock.

"Why would you want me?"

I am a mess, is her unspoken subtext. I have the scars from two bullets, several knives and a lifetime of abuse. I am sick and wrong and not worth the oxygen. I am pathetic and worthless and you are better off without me. You had the British Government underneath you screaming your name, why do you want someone as fucked up as I am?

"Because I love you. And I will keep telling you that until you believe me."

At their engagement party, Mycroft turns up. He is surprised, but not unduly bothered. Water under the bridge. With Sherlock jumping off Bart's roof and Jim blowing his brains out, there aren't any direct relatives there – just a few friends as witnesses.

Alix cries softly, alone, when she thinks everyone has left for the party and the drinks and dancing. Mycroft sees her, alone, sobbing, and gently takes her into his arms without really thinking about it. That's how Greg finds them – Mycroft soothing Alix into calmness, rocking her like a child and stroking her hair. On some level, he understands how she feels.

After Mycroft has left and they've gone home, Alix is standing in their living room putting music on. Fast, loud, happy songs – well, happy by her standards anyway, he thinks, seeing as she likes My Chemical Romance. She's not done that in months, not since her brother and her best friend died on the same day. The strangest thing – although he's happy, it confuses him – is that she's smiling. She's grinning like she's won the lottery.

"Alright, what did he tell you?" he laughs as they dance around the room together.

She's still smiling. "He told me that Sherlock and Jim were dead, and nothing I could say or do would bring them back."

Greg is about to respond to this when she continues: "It's his eyes that give it away. For all that he can read people, he's a terrible actor when you're up close."

Now completely lost, Greg pulls her to a standstill and says, "Sorry, what?"

"It's his eyes," she says, laughing. "Haven't you ever noticed? Whenever he lies to you, he keeps eye contact. He didn't look away once when I asked what had really happened on the roof. So either both of them are alive, or at least one of them is. Considering the various methods of guns and pavements, my money's on Sherlock."

Greg looks at her properly now, eyes wide in shock. "You are kidding me."

"Nope. Honest to the best of my knowledge and understanding of Mycroft Holmes – which, let's be honest, is pretty damn good considering how long I've known him."

Greg says nothing, he just tilts his head on one side and looks at her. She giggles.

"I've known Sherlock since we were… well, I was nineteen and he was twenty the first time we met. University cafeteria – he deduced that I was bisexual, had an older brother I was close to, a guitarist, a forensics and psychology student with sociopathic traits and distaste for ordinary people. I replied by informing him that he was a chemical analytical student, with an older brother he pretended that he absolutely hated, a high-functioning sociopath with great ability to extrapolate from tiny details and yet also able to miss the blindingly obvious."

Greg is interested in spite of himself. "What did he miss?"

She pulls up her sleeve to show him the long narrow scar running down her left arm. "I don't play games."

Greg frowned. "Hang on a minute. Sherlock didn't recognise you when I took you to that murder scene… you told him about the two men who'd killed the girl, said to him that you'd seen it all before and that he should really try to keep up."

She laughed. "I remember that. I had my hair dyed blue at university, that's probably why. People saw the hair and forgot the face. Useful quirk of human brains, and even the great Holmes brothers weren't exempt from that. As soon as I went back to black, nobody knew me. Good trick for undercover work."

"And Mycroft?"

"Not quite as long. I stayed with Sherlock a few times – it's good to have a second brain working on the problems. Mycroft would come to see him, and I got to know him from there."

From the tone of her voice, he's wary. She might well mean anything, from 'I know he's not as much of a posh prick as he makes out' to 'I know he's basically the British Government' to 'I know why you find him attractive because I do as well'.

His train of thought is broken abruptly as she kisses him, slow and gentle, hands sliding up his back.

"You zoned out. I got bored." She's smirking.

He growls, low in the back of his throat. "Maybe we should take you somewhere else, then… somewhere soft. Without sharp and breakable objects."

She looks up at him, all wide-eyed innocence and butter-wouldn't-melt. "I am hurt, Greg. Hurt."

He kisses her again, harder. "And you know I wouldn't have you any other way."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Short chapter. Nothing nasty.**

At their wedding, after the ceremony, when everyone is dancing, Alix steps outside for a few moments. Ostensibly, she's feeling light-headed and wants space to breathe. What she's actually doing is waiting. After a little while, she hears a faint rustle not far off. She smiles, seeing a flicker of pale skin headed in her direction.

"Sherlock." She whispers his name, nothing else.

"Alix." He replies in kind. He stays in the shadows, and she reaches one hand out. They touch fingertips, but that's all. "My congratulations."

"Thank you." She smiles through her tears. "Never doubted you." A noise from inside catches her attention. "Someone's coming. Go. Go!" she hisses as Sherlock darts back into the shadows, gone now until the deception is finally revealed.

Greg walks out, shivering in the cool air. "You alright?" he asks, wrapping arms around her waist. She hums contentedly and leans back against him.

"Yeah." She smiles, turns and kisses him softly. "Go back in, babe. I won't be a minute."

But she doesn't follow him inside. She waits, probably longer than is wise, hoping. When she is about to give up, she hears someone coming towards her. She stays silent as her older brother steps out of the darkness, his eyes glowing and skin flushed. They embrace, once, briefly. He steps back, smiles sadly.

"Sorry I'm late."

"It's okay," she mutters. Five words and their accents are back like they've never been away.

"Congratulations to you and Greg," he adds. "Got you something."

She catches the little box as he throws it to her. Thin, fine silvery chain, silver dragonfly with blue wings. It must have cost a fortune. It goes perfectly with her dress, of course.

She doesn't ask how he survived, because it doesn't really matter. What matters is that he's alive, and for now, she is safe.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her eyes are heavy with tears. He steps forward in an unspoken understanding and very gently wipes them away with the ball of his thumb.

"I'm not going to see much of you now, am I?" he asks. They both smile – it's a long-running joke. "Goodbye, little sister," he says softly. "Be well."

"Goodbye, brother," she replies, as his shadow disappears from sight.

Later that night, at home, she writes her journal. Not a blog, not a Tumblr page; a private, password-protected Word document. He watches, wondering what she says via keyboard that she wouldn't say aloud. Some things, he decides, are best left unspoken. If she wants him to know, she will tell him.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This is entirely Alix's journal – her memories, kind of giving a bit more background to her. Rated for matriarchal cruelty, venom, non-blood related sibling incest, and implied Holmescest (very mild). Don't like, don't read, don't bitch.**

The private journal of Alix Moriarty, alias Alix Matthews, and now Alix Lestrade.

This is my testimony, encompassing most of what I remember. PRIVATE.

I was maybe eight years old when we moved to England. Jim was ten. My mother – his stepmother, the current matriarch of the Moriarty dynasty, after killing her husband – was sick of us. Well, sick of me. I was not, admittedly, an easy child. When I was born, I damaged my mother's womb irreparably, and she despised me for it. The fact of my gender didn't help matters – she had always wanted a son. I was known to be above average early on; certified child genius at seven. Diagnosed bipolar three months previous. It was held up as another mark of my inadequacy in her eyes. When I wasn't behaving the way she wished – leaving a room untidy, being 'lazy' in my research, getting into fights – my medication would be withheld. It was nothing if not effective. I learned quickly that I had to keep up with her moods, and when that failed, I learnt to pick the locks on her cupboards where she kept my pills. Jim acted as a screen as much as he could – she doted on him, despite the fact that he was not hers. He despised her, but tolerated her to shield me from her outbursts. The bond we formed in those few years was to last for our entire lives.

Mark was her half-brother, so she sent us to live with him. Those few short years in sodden West Country schools were the safest I'd ever know. I was bullied relentlessly until I learnt to mimic the local accent, to play the part they had cast me in and play it well. It wasn't giving up; it was hiding to survive. Jim was forced to do much the same. All day, we would act out our roles; the relief when we got home, when we could speak normally, without fear of retribution, is something I have never forgotten.

The sense of injustice – we could not change what we were – was burned into our souls. It could easily be argued that the experience damaged both of us, made us what we are. True to a point, I suppose, but psychopaths are not made, they are born. There is little doubt in my mind that our upbringing only brought out the psychopathic and sociopathic traits in us; it did not create them, merely highlighted them. We knew even then that conventional authorities were next to useless, at least for us – juveniles, from another country, versus locals. We had to make our own way.

We moved again, this time to London, when I was ten and Jim was twelve, after Mark died. Car crash. Again, nothing ever came of the official investigation. We all knew it was the older brother of the local bully, in revenge for mine and Jim's attack on his family. We had left his house covered in paint, his clothes shredded, his mother in hysterics and his dog with bleached fur, after he beat the daylights out of us. He killed the closest thing we had to a father. Hardly responding in kind, we thought. We poisoned him and his girlfriend before we left. Our first kill.

At first we had nannies – to do the cleaning and cooking, boring things like that – but they all quit and eventually Mother realised it wasn't worth the money. So we were left to our own devices. I did most of the cooking and figured out how to fix things when they got broken by one or the other of us. Jim paid the bills from our collective allowance and kept the flat reasonably ordered – just enough to convince any interfering social worker that there was an adult living there who was currently away on a 'business trip'. We relied completely on each other for survival; neither could cope alone. Our relationship was almost symbiotic; we communicated wordlessly, moved perfectly around each other, fitted together like two halves of the whole. He became so much more than simply my brother; he was my closest friend, my ally, my protector. The age gap never made any difference in our eyes. Neither did our parenting. We were not related by blood and had no intention of having children; we saw no problem with it.

We never told the London school my real age; instead, we told them that we were non-identical twins. They accepted it, and we were inseparable. Wherever I went, he was with me, my life raft of sanity and interest in a world of dull and boring and stupid people. He took great delight in manipulating our peers, saying that he could make them dance for me if I wished. We self-taught the basics of hacking, of lock-picking, of manipulation. We began to orchestrate petty crimes; the theft of an instrument from a guitar shop, perhaps a stereo system, some curious art supplies. We were never implicated; the goods passed through at least three people before us, back and forth many times until the chain looped back on itself and we were safe. We agreed that, should anyone enquire, we would deny all knowledge of the goods' origin. We filled our flat with the things we wanted and swore we would never go home.

When we went to university, it was the first time we were apart for more than an hour or so in our entire lives. It was scary. We went back to the flat that evening and just held onto each other. It got easier as time passed, but we always came back together, sooner rather than later.

It was then that I met Sherlock Holmes. He was the first person I had met, other than my brother, who seemed to have half a brain between his ears. He knew about me from observing me, and suddenly it seemed Jim and I were not alone. The fact that he also had a brother was… curious. Was Mycroft as intelligent as his younger sibling – likely if not certain. Were they close – not as we were, suggesting a larger age gap. Were they just brothers – unlikely, given Sherlock's dark curls and the ginger hairs on his coat shoulder – closer than brothers, then.

When Sherlock and Jim met for the first time, in our flat, you could have cut the tension with a knife. They circled each other, like animals, waiting for a reaction. Both rattled off streams of deductions, quickly supported or cut down by the other, sparring with words. When Sherlock commented on the unusual nature of our relationship, that was when Jim snapped. He tackled Sherlock to the floor and hissed, "Don't you fucking dare say another word."

Sherlock just looked up at him and said dryly, "Clearly, you are not aware of my… relationship with my brother."

I pulled Jim back, who was staring in shock. Evidently we were not alone in that respect either. In a strange way, it was comforting. We ordered a Chinese takeaway and sat around, talking and eating and drinking whisky and rubbishing the television output at that time. It was the first time they fought, and I think we all knew it would not be the last.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Part journal, part third-person narrative. If anyone gets confused, the short third-person narrative section is meant to be at John and Mary's wedding.**

Of course, Jim and I had to keep up the pretence; the mask of normality, we called it. Some would call it the mask of sanity. I moved away, got a job working as a forensics analyst, while he built up an empire of people who he could manipulate. He could still make them all dance to his tune. We were still closer than was advisable, healthy or strictly legal. I came across Sherlock Holmes again, and struck up a friendship. He did not recognise me from our brief university acquaintance, so he didn't know who I really was, and I was safe, temporarily. We worked together, solving crimes that the police found incomprehensible. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the subject of my divided loyalties came up.

Jim started up what he called 'The Great Game'. A week's worth of puzzles and fear and racing against the clock. John was kidnapped. Sherlock was distraught, to the point where I allowed him to attack me to relieve the tension. The swimming pool stalemate. I ran in, broke the silence, and got shot for my pains. Once in the abdomen and once in the lower chest, nicked my right lung. According to John, I was spitting blood and they thought I was going to die. I survived, barely. I was recuperating in Jim's flat for weeks. Sherlock knew what was going on, but he said nothing. All credit to him for recognising – at least this once – that this was not the time to be asking. I had not helped Jim; I had not betrayed him either. He seemed to understand. We had both grown up and gone past the stage of needing each other to breathe. He had not begrudged me anything in the past, and he accepted this too.

I began a tentative relationship with Gregory Lestrade. He was gentle; he didn't push me to be anything other than what I was. As someone who had acted a role every day since the age of eight, this was new. He cared for me, in an honest and unassuming way. He was kind, he was cautious and he was everything that my brother was not and could not be. I knew that Gregory was bisexual when we met, and I knew he was having a relationship with Mycroft Holmes. He broke it off for my sake, before we were anything other than close friends; that he cared enough about me to do that was good enough for me.

At the wedding – before either of them had officially returned from beyond the grave – Jim met up with me, outside, briefly. Gave me the dragonfly necklace that I'll never take off. It was his way of giving his blessing.

Greg watched as Alix grinned and waved to Sherlock, weaving through the crowd of people to stand beside him.

"I know. It's awful, isn't it?" he heard her say as she gestured to her dress. "Apparently you're not allowed to wear black to a wedding. Skinny jeans and leather jackets are also frowned upon."

Sherlock just smiled back at her. "Alix. You look beautiful."

He had to agree with him there.

She was wearing a floor-length silvery dress that shimmered as she moved. It was puffed out with petticoats, and there was grey lace on the bodice and the corset. Strapless, of course. The laces were dark grey ribbon; her dark brown hair had a silver flower pinned above her left ear. The only jewellery she wore was a silver pentagram ring on the third finger of her right hand, a simple silver necklace, and silver earrings. There was a smudge of silver-grey eye shadow on each eyelid, and a little eyeliner. Her nails were still black, though, and she was still wearing fingerless gloves – although in deference to the occasion, they were elbow-length dark grey lace. She looked like – well, like Alix. The goth at the wedding. He'd not found the right adjective for her yet.

"I missed you," she said quietly.

"I know," he replied. "You got engaged?"

"Married, actually. John didn't tell you, then… well, I suppose it didn't come up." She smiled. "Greg asked me – this was before you disappeared – and I said yes."

Greg thinks this was what she said – it was said quietly, but she gestured to the ring and smiled that strange half-smile that seemed forever associated with the wedding. He could only assume that it's half-happy at remembering the day, but half-sad that important people weren't there.

Whatever James Moriarty was to the rest of the world – consulting criminal, Satan incarnate, puzzle, psychopath – there was still one woman who cared for him and mourned him as her brother. She was heartbroken when she was told they'd found the body with the gun.

And however the rest of the world perceives Sherlock Holmes – fake, hero, freak, nutcase – there is still at least one woman who cares for him as a true friend. Although she nearly throttled him when she learned he was still alive.

He decided to join them, carefully standing and making his way over. She turned towards him and smiled – the proper smile now, the real smile. It's not something many people get to see. He treasured it. He put one arm around her and kissed her temple.

Sherlock looked at them in faint puzzlement, but shrugged it off. "Lestrade. Congratulations."

He framed Sherlock as a fake and a fraud; we both knew it was lies, but I could do nothing until they were gone. When I saw my older brother – my protector, my best friend, my love – lying on a cold metal slab in the morgue, I nearly screamed. Instead I checked the body and was almost helpless with relief when I saw that he had faked it. I had a similar reaction with Sherlock's body. It wasn't his. Molly knew, and we looked at each other in unspoken understanding. It was almost funny, to think that someone that both sides appeared to forget was in fact the most important person on the field.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Entirely journal again. Rated for discussion of murder and bipolar disorder.**

In the years when they were both 'dead' I worked to clear Sherlock's name. In that time, I heard more and more about a new man; well, perhaps 'new' is the wrong word. He was an old face, one we had known of for years, one Jim had loathed and Sherlock had despised.

Charles Augustus Magnussen. People sometimes knew him as Milverton, others as Murdoch. Media tycoon, owned half the papers on Fleet Street, and had influence over most of the others. Owned some of the major news channels, had interests in others, and in effect could easily control the thinking of much of the Western world.

'The man who deals in secrets and lies and rumour', Sherlock once described him.

'He doesn't need proof, he owns newspapers. What does he want proof for?' Jim had asked.

Both hated and feared him in equal measure. They knew that if Magnussen had something on someone close to them, that person was as good as gone. He could destroy someone's reputation merely on a whim. It didn't matter if there was no material proof of the accusations; if he found someone's 'pressure point' then he could manipulate a chain of control and influence.

This was clearly demonstrated not long after Sherlock's miraculous resurrection, courtesy of Mycroft. When Sherlock returned from the dead, Magnussen had influence over Mary Morstan, soon to be Mary Watson, because he knew the rumours about some unsavoury things in her past. Thus, he had control of John, who would defend his wife any way he could; thus he had control of Sherlock, who would die, or at least fake his death, to save his friend; and thus he had control of Mycroft Holmes, who might act indifferent but would move heaven and earth for his younger brother. The chain was only broken when Sherlock stole John's army-issue gun and shot Magnussen in the head.

The Appledore vaults we were all so afraid of were not real; they were 'mind vaults' of Magnussen's, in much the same way Mycroft has his mind city and Sherlock his mind palace (or, depending on his temperament, his hard drive). I have London as a mental template, but many of the buildings are places where I lived or visited; places in Ireland, in Bristol, in Edinburgh. Most of mine are in some way linked with death – which likely tells any psychiatrist worth their salt all they need to know. If nothing else, it's a potent way to cement something in my mind.

Everyone will have a different mental representation of death – perhaps a memory of a loved one, a graveyard, a mausoleum. But I think mine speaks volumes about my psyche.

My death is my mother.

I think it's justified. She nearly did kill me when I was young. And it's largely her fault I am bipolar – she was and hid the fact until James Moriarty Senior was buried. All my life, the dizzying heights of mania and the crippling lows of my depressive periods, all the times when I was so reckless I nearly died, all the times I tried to kill myself – all her fault. She tried to pretend it was just me, but of course bipolarity is hereditary – and this was the first time it had shown up in a Moriarty child. Of course it was her.

Why did she even try to hide it?


End file.
